


The Gristmill

by orphan_account



Category: Jelpus
Genre: Basically one big in-joke, In-Jokes, Meta, Nonsense, Writer's Block
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:40:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28322496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Words on the origin of the Univede...
Kudos: 2





	The Gristmill

**Author's Note:**

> For Wander_The_Corvids and unintelligible to everyone else...

It was in the early hours of the morning, two days after the Day of Elk, before the sun had risen, when the ancient scribe dragged himself out of bed. Emerging from his fragile wooden hut, he began to cross the expanse of rust red sand between his home and the foreboding crooked tower of stone before him. The locals called this lonely stone structure the Gristmill, on account of the terrible loud noises that came from within at odd times of the day.

The scribe gave such rumours little heed, but did see some irony in the term. How little they really knew. Some people from the nearest village, travelling east to the markets of Labeouf sometimes stopped by his humble hut, leaving offerings of food and blankets, rarely stopping to talk. The scribe liked it this way. He’d chosen to reside in the baron lands of Shia for a reason. The only major disruptions came from Lashling reinforcements, marching north to become fuel for the great battles.

The scribe took a heavy bronze key from the folds of his robe and opened the door of the tower. Giving one last look at the empty desert canvas, he stepped over the threshold into infinity. Inside, the contents of the tower might surprise most people. Despite the winding heights of the tower, there was only a solitary hollow space within, from the cold stone floor to the dizzying rafters high above. Sitting alone in the middle of the emptiness was an unadorned wooden table and a high-backed chair.

The scribe sat down and gazed at the table, which held a single blank piece of parchment. Reaching into his robes again, out came a quill pen, with the plume of a bright orange bird affixed. The scribe adjusted his glasses clumsily and focused on the page. He cleared his throat, then set pen to paper.

To an outside observer, what happened next might appear utterly mundane. Words and ink flowed from the scribe’s pen, covering the once-clean paper with indecipherable scribblings. Every inch of the page was devoured by the text, consumed at a dazzling rate. The scribe halted his strange reverie and regarded his rambling chicken-scratch.

A small smile crept onto his lips. No-one outside the stone walls would ever know what had just occurred. But the scribe knew. He had created… everything.

Out there, the world beyond, it all stemmed from the scribe’s pen. Day in, day out, he retreated to this abode and spun his stories, the words spewing out. And every day the sun rose and set, because he willed it in his writing. The sands of the Shia lands were perfect for this muse to function. A blank expanse of sand upon which his clear thoughts could mould the world’s progress.

Jelloys Jelpus and his friend Crumpkin worked tirelessly in Irnofe’s forge, never realising the destiny the scribe was spelling out for them. Ock D’dn struggled to carry out his duties, knowing they would cause horrors in their wake, because of what the scribe wrote. People in Chrismo lived their lives, simple, wonderful lives, at the whim of his words, each one charted by him.

It was not just the words he wrote, no. His initial stories all came from the same source. Mistakes. Errors. The things that made a person human, every fallible quirk, every forgetful moment and clumsy sentence, those sparked new and greater words to populate the land.

The great conflict between the Lashlings and Seshlings, that had come from his words. Several weeks had been spent documenting troop movements, victories and losses, the destructive war raging across the land. 

The land upon which these stories played out, that was because of him. Even the very fabric of the Univede itself began in his thoughts, translated down into letters and words.

The scribe laughed at the very idea, that he held such power over the warp and weft of time. It echoed throughout the hollow tower, reverberating all around him. Then the laugh died in his throat.

Ultimately, such hubris could only lead the scribe to one conclusion. After all, he was old now, ancient compared to the mortals going about their lives according to his feverish designs. Even the gods, the mighty Penta, the cults of the Hoya, with all of their great power, were but children to him. His bony hands were covered in wrinkles, the skin like paper.

Feeling hot, he loosened his collar and resumed his writing. As his pen raced across the page, spinning stories of victory and betrayal, of heroes and gods, blacksmiths and assassins, merchants and warriors, the back of his mind was preoccupied by another, new thought.

Ever more often now the scribe had been overcome with a new sensation, a terrible perlema. A void as blank as his parchment had been at the start of the day. After so very long, he had begun to fear that his stories might someday have an end. The memepocolypse always hung on the horizon, the end of Jelpus’ tale, of everyone’s tale. Would anyone ever reach Ancient Greese, or would the Hoya never leave Seshlehem to reach the promised land?

Such worries gnawed on the scribe’s thoughts, overwhelming him with doubt. Many times he’d thought of Procrastination Creek, waiting and delaying the inevitable. But he knew he must continue, that halting the story now would lead to the same static outcome. A dead world, the storyteller gone, never to progress. This was a great fear, but even greater was what could come after.

What would become of his world once the story reached its end. Would it spell the same cold death as stopping now? The world and its people ‘complete’, never to progress again? Jelpus, Crumpkin, Irnofe, the gods, even insignificant little Joe Expunge, A yawning chasm, the end of history, to ensnare all in pointless loops, going nowhere?

That had led the scribe to another, much more haunting conclusion. Often, secluded in his dusty tower, he felt the arbiter of creation, that his lair was an unassailable sanctum. But thoughts always crept in from the shadows. What if this room, with the table and parchment, was all there was? That the world outside these round walls was all a fiction, a concoction of his starved mind. The words on paper may no more control the fate of reality than a butterfly’s wings could affect the weather.

More and more, the creeping dread that this was a mere delusion of the mind played on his thoughts. Shaking now, the scribe attempted to write more words, to give texture to the world’s history. It was futile. Reality failed to cohere. All his best efforts would be in vain anyway, if after the final word things simply ended. What would his purpose be then? What use a scribe with nothing to write down?

It was as he was fearfully contemplating this, that the scribe felt an emanation in the air. The lightest waft of wind disturbed him. He looked around in a panic, seeing only the familiar bricks of his sanctum. He couldn’t call out, his vocal cords long since atrophied from disuse. Silently gasping, he clutched the arms of his chair tightly as something, some primordial spirit formed in front of him.

Trembling, the scribe thought this apparition a further symptom of his madness, finally succumbing to the isolation. The brooding figure stared down at him, gaze fixed. It was a dark-bearded man, a deranged look in his eyes. The man hunched his arms and legs, then yelled at the top of his lungs.

“JUST. DO IT!”

The scribe didn’t know how to respond.

“DON’T LET YOUR DREAMS BE DREAMS!” the spirit shouted again, making the scribe’s body jump in place. Grinding a fist into his palm, the spirit, pained expression on his face, seemed desperate to convey some important message to the scribe. That this was vital information. “JUST…. DO IT!”

With that, the image of the man’s face melted back into the shadows, and the air was once again still. Hesitating a moment, the scribe looked around hastily to check that he was once again alone. Sighing deeply, he stilled his beating heart. Perhaps the spectre’s words were meaningful.

He looked anew upon his parchment. Even if the story had to end, perhaps that was simply fate. Everything may stop, a journey may come to an end. But perhaps that was what was important. The journey itself, not the destination.

A thin smile formed on the scribe’s face. Yes, he thought. He was ready to write on and see where the words took him.

Then a chorus of high-pitched voices suddenly erupted from the air.

“SHIA SURPRISE!”

The scribe clutched his chest in fear, the unexpected screeching sound utterly terrifying him. A great pain stabbed at him from his heart. A moment later, the pen fell from his lifeless grasp as his heart ceased to beat.

A second of silence passed. Then another. And another. On and on. With no-one to record or predict. This was the scribe’s fear, finally come to pass. And no-one outside would ever know the difference…

The end… 

…forever...


End file.
